


it's just a waiting game

by vertigoblue



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 1940 to 2020, 80 years of waiting, Contact (Doctor Who), F/M, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Mind Meld, POV The Master (Doctor Who), Pining, SPOILERS for Season 12 finale, Slice of Life, Spying, Spymaster, Thirteenth Doctor Era, Thoschei, alternate title: the master does not handle impatience well, he has no self preservation at all, im concerned for him, slice of life (the master edition)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-19 09:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22975498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertigoblue/pseuds/vertigoblue
Summary: After Paris, the Master waits eighty years to see her again. Some of those years are uneventful. Some are not.
Relationships: The Doctor & The Master (Doctor Who), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), The Master & Rory Williams, The Master/Rory Williams, Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 95





	1. the introduction

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been thinking about this fic since Spyfall. Tonight is the season finale, and I'm finally ready to post something. That really goes to show my writing speed, huh? I started off writing random snippets that made no sense whatsoever, and it somehow ended up as this. 
> 
> Anyway, I felt the fact that the master waited eighty years to catch up to the doctor was glossed over, so I decided to go into those years in greater detail. This chapter is more of an introduction, the others will probably be longer - and I hope those who read, enjoy! Please let me know what you all think.

  
The Doctor catches him off guard. Regeneration after regeneration, and they never fail to surprise him.

His newest regeneration - O, M16, text-friend of the Doctor, spymaster - has waited so long to see her again, has spent years watching, waiting, collecting every piece of information on her so that he will know any plans forming in her head even before she does.

And he does know her. But he doesn’t account for the minds of the people she’s picked up along the way, so now he’s stood at the top of the Eiffel Tower, watching her sink away from him, casually waving like they are friends who meet up every weekend to catch up, instead of - whatever they are. There has been little time since her last regeneration (a pitiful amount of time, in comparison to the rest of her existence) and the same is said for him. He doesn’t exactly know what they are just yet.

Shouting from inside the tower draws him out of his thoughts. Soldiers rise up to confront him as the Doctor sinks away. His hands raise up as a show of surrender, and he pictures her grinning, celebrating her win as she descends. 

Her happiness... bothers him. He's been happy before - he knows perfectly well how temporary it is, but how good it feels when it's there. It's not fair that she gets to be happy, and he doesn't. But after going back to Gallifrey, after _destroying_ it, he doesn't think happiness is in the cards for him anymore. He's accepted that, but the anger he has most certainly hasn't, and he feels it in his hands, clenching tight as he's escorted down the stairs. His perfect plan - all but gone. Earning her trust, becoming her friend, seeing the look of absolute disbelief and fear on her face when she realised who exactly he was - gods, that had been satisfying to see. None of this is _fair._ Finding the Doctor again - killing her like he killed the rest of them - is the only thing he has left. The men escorting him down the tower? A mere inconvenience. 

The Master walks out of the Eiffel Tower alone, leaving the crushed remains of miniature soldier dolls behind. Only the manic smile he wears gives the impression that there is something wrong. No TARDIS. No Doctor. No silly little companions. Alone, in the middle of a war. If anything, his smile grows a little wider. Good. He likes a challenge. 

His eyes fall on the car which the soldiers arrived in. They won't be needing it now.

-

Combined with his fixed psychic perception filter, and a basic voice modifier he's managed to build from the car’s engine, it's pitifully easy to slip into one of the more neutral countries under the pretence of being someones relative, or friend, or - oh, how he makes himself laugh - a doctor.

Once safe, all he has to do is wait. He's got plenty of experience of that, from over the years. He remembers waiting for an entire planet of weak, feeble humans to be transformed into something superior - into _him._ He remembers falling to the mossy ground, the life bleeding out of him as his past regeneration escapes in a lift. That's twice now that a lift has carried someone away from him. Maybe the universe is trying to tell him something.

He remembers waiting while staring blankly up at trees, no energy left to blink, or breathe, let alone call to the Doctor for help.

_Fetch the Doctor, someone is dying._

He remembers the softness of the grassy floor, and how he was so, so tired. Tired of trying to earn his friend’s forgiveness. Tired of fighting for them. Tired of wanting nothing more than a chance to fly through the universe at their side, like they did when they were kids. Gods, everything was more simple when they were kids. If only the Doctor wasn't so _good._ They could have had a chance.

He remembers waiting for the Doctor to save him, remembers holding off the regeneration for as long as he could, filled with hope that his friend would come. He remembers dying alone, and the golden glow of rebirth washing his hope away.

The Master is good at waiting. He knows his doctor, knows where she'll be. What's another eighty years of waiting around?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m interested in any feedback! :)
> 
> Off to watch the season finale now. Please let it be good, and please don’t let any of the companions die, BBC.


	2. the rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the master Does Not Care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT WAS THAT FINALE. I’m broken. 
> 
> speaking of broken things... Chibnall, please just fix the master-doctor friendship. let them be pals again, it’s all I want.
> 
> Spoiler warning for the season 12 finale!!

It’s safe to say, waiting around quickly becomes unbearable.

He’s experienced decades of instant time travel with his TARDIS, going wherever he wants _whenever_ he wants, so being stuck in one time is something he’s learning to loathe. How can humanity live like this? Time moves so slowly, and he is under it’s thumb - bound to progress forwards at the speed it demands. No more reliving the rainy days. No more exploring the past, or shaping the future. He's always up for a little bit of future meddling, and being denied that feels like the worst possible insult the universe can throw in his face.

Travelling the human way is torturously slow. But when the war ends, he's back in England the first chance he gets, with minimal grumbling, and only a _few_ new dolls in his pocket. He finds they make excellent paper weights. 

Being in England feels... right somehow. He knows this is where the Doctor has regenerated, over and over, and more importantly - where she will be to foil his plans in seventy five years. Gods, he still has that long to wait? What a _bore._ There's more to it than that, though. He knows there is. Texts and photos can only ever achieve so much - this is where she saw him as the Master for the first time. And he'll admit to his sentimental tendencies: the country where he made her terrified will always hold a special place in his hearts.

-

He remembers his moments in her presence with the utmost clarity. Straight hair easily curled in the wind. Light coat, colourful shirt, yellow sonic. So desperate to appear bright and shiny and happy and not hurt in the slightest. But he knows her, knows that she’s hurting - knows that most of her pain is from seeing him again. 

He pauses. A sonic. He thinks he needs one of those right about now. A shiny black telephone which he has no need for sits in the corner of his sight, just begging to be improved. It's something to start with, he thinks. If he can't have a TARDIS, he may as well have a sonic of his own. The grin tugging at the corner of his mouth isn't entirely of his own doing as he thinks of his doctor, and the pout she might give at his copying of her. Once the smile is there however, he indulges in it. It's not like there's much else to do around here. 

...That's not entirely true. There are plenty of potential people-paper weights out there. Plenty of books to read, deem useless, and toss into the fire. Plenty of street signs to tear down so that no irritating humans show up at his door. Small momentary distractions, to last a lifetime. Or in his case, enough to last a week, before performing tiny acts of chaos gets old.

-

He is used to the almost nightly routine by now: where sleep evades him and he has to lie awake, tapping out a four beat rhythm wherever his hand rests, eyes watching but never focused on the intricately painted ceilings of whichever mansion he currently lives in. He’s making his way around the country, slowly. Turns out, once he points his TCE at the owners, it’s pretty easy to get everyone else to clear out, with the promise of them suffering the same fate if they ever breath a word of it to anyone. Honestly, how the Doctor forgot to disarm him back in Paris, he'll never really know. Maybe she was focusing on her plan, or distracted by seeing him again - he's certainly been distracted by her.

So bright. So weightless, despite the hurt, despite everything she's been through. The parts she remembers, and the majority that she doesn't. When he finally finds her, tells her about what he did to Gallifrey, and _why_ he did it, will she look so happy then? He pictures her in that lift again, smiling, sinking away. Her happiness will fade, He will break her. Its only a matter of time.  And if he’s stuck waiting for years and years to find her again, he might as well wait in style.

Tonight is one of those sleepless nights.  


The usual laughing at horror films and making bets with himself which of the characters will die first, or throwing darts at a scribbled stick figure with blonde hair and big brown boots (he can draw much better than that, but she doesn’t deserve it,) just isn’t doing for him anymore. Not to mention the piece of paper that so excellently captures her likeness is shredded by darts beyond repair.

He's in one of _those_ moods again. Where the tapping of rain on the windowsill reminds him of drums, nothing like the real thing - but still enough to make him cling to the duvet that little bit tighter, to make him curl up that little bit smaller. Where the rain, something he loves because of how rarely they experienced it on Gallifrey, and one of Earth's redeeming features (in his unequalled opinion) cannot cheer him up. He's in that mood where shadows look more sinister, and he cant find it in himself to face them.

It's safe to say, he hates these moods. What he hates more though, is that picturing her sitting at his side, offering a smile that is meant for companions, for _friends,_ is often all it takes to make them go away.

-

There’s a storm above the house. Just what he’s been waiting for. Attaching homemade radio towers to the roof just isn’t as fun without a little lightning.   
  


Storms like this don't happen on Gallifrey. Long before he was born, the Time Lords had built lightning rods to harness the energy, considering themselves worthy to use it, just like they used the rest of the universe. With slow winds, storms on Gallifrey could last for weeks - but here on Earth the cold air blows hard, sending rain into his face as he sways. The freezing temperature bites at his fingers, slowing him down. It’s brilliant. There are no lightning rods in England just yet - who knows where the next bolt will land? The lacking safety of his situation makes him giddy.

“Come on then!” He spins around one of the radio towers, dancing in the rain. “Give it your best shot - I’m waiting!”

He hasn’t felt this alive in weeks, months even - every strike reminds him of the Kasaavins, pure beings of light so perfect for Earth’s destruction. He hopes Barton isn’t messing things up in his absence.

But no time to think of that now. He’s playing Chicken with a lightning storm, and he intends to win.

-

  
He can’t bring himself to throw darts at his latest scribbled stick-doctor. Asking himself why is futile, he doesn’t know why. Clenching his hand around the pointed projectile, he lifts it to aim - \-- and in his palm it remains. He cannot do it. 

So instead of asking himself more stupid questions, he looks for a solution. How logical. The doctor would be proud.  Perhaps he needs a more accurate drawing. His stomach twists whenever he thinks of her. He is angry, this feeling is anger, it has to be - but it is hard to be angry at a stick person. Even if it has her hair, her boots. He needs something more akin to the real thing. 

The Master knows she’s not worth the time, or the accuracy he’s painstakingly pouring into her portrait, but he’s in need of a target. Any old drawing won't cut it, and it never will. It has to be her. Her hair, short and messy and windswept a little over her eyes - oh, how difficult it is to capture the brightness of her eyes on paper, but he tries his best. And with how familiar she is becoming to his daydreaming mind, his best is a perfect likeness. With a soft hold on his pencil, he draws her nose, gently curved at the end, and a smile - that is not for him, but for O, her friend before all of this - plays on her face. Her neck trails down into empty space. The clothing does not matter to him, as the face is there, and that is enough. It is his Doctor. He has a target.

But all his effort is in vain - he can’t bring himself to destroy the portrait either.  His fingers are restless, and he wants to fidget, to clench them around the paper until it is crumpled and ruined. His pencil is snapped in half now, discarded on the floor. But his hold on her picture remains gentle, and he comprises with himself, tracing a thumb close to her outline instead, not too close in fear of smudging it. Ruining it. 

It’s a split second decision - but he is folding the paper once, twice, three times, and slides it into the pocket of his jacket and away from any potential harm before he can second guess himself. 

It’s okay, he thinks, to not be able to summon his anger towards a stick-figure, or a well drawn portrait. It just means his anger will be that much more satisfying when he’s face with the real thing. When he is gloating, celebrating his victory with the sweet, sweet knowledge that she will be there to listen. That she will retort with some plan to stop him, and he will laugh because her stubborn sense of hope never fails to amuse him.  He'll kill her once he's finished laughing. Or he'll tell her the truth about who exactly The Doctor is, and let that kill her instead. 

But for now, he manages to conquer the sleepless nights, as rest seems to come a little easier when he sleeps with her portrait in the pocket next to his left heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting from next week, I'm probably going to make Tuesday 'update day.'
> 
> PLEASE yell at me in the comments about that finale. I need to know I'm not the only one who got their mind blown.
> 
> I also thrive on feedback, so please let me know what you think!


	3. the screwdriver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All those years as O have made him a pretty decent spy(master).

The radio towers the Master set up work just as he needs them too. And what he so desperately needs is to hack into the private frequencies of any alien ships that are cloaking themselves in the Earth's atmosphere, so that he can know what plans they have _before_ said plans are acted on. He wants to know who's out there - whether they are ambassadors of peace, scouts, or soldiers intent on claiming this planet for themselves. 

He isn't so worried about the possibility of invaders, after all, he knows with a guarantee that the Doctor keeps Earth safe for a good long while after whatever time it is right now. (When is it? He isn't used to being in one place for so long. He'll have to remember to ask someone what the year is before he crushes their doll under his heel.) What he _is_ worried about, however, is the fact that he wasn't around last time. His presence here can change things, send ripples through time, changing the future - maybe even changing it too much, and his plan with Barton may never come to be. Having to fix that issue, along with all the frustrating paradoxes that will no doubt come with it, is something he's not keen to waste time on. 

He can just picture it. Time, rewritten, because the Master gets himself captured by some aliens, and the Doctor loses their precious human race because they're too busy saving him?  No thanks.

All he needs to know is _where_ potential alien invaders are going to show up, and he can simply move out of the way. Find some new house at the other end of the country. He doesn't mind killing a few humans here and there. They're small and inconsequential, and won't make that much of a difference to the future. But being the cause of Earth under alien rule? That's not a rewrite he wants to be responsible for - his Doctor will be incredibly cross, and he'll never hear the end of it.

So it's good, then, that his towers are working. It's going to be a pain to keep moving them from house to house, but it's all worth it if he gets what he needs. There's an incredible feeling he always gets at the prospect of being one step ahead oh everyone else. He's felt it plenty, recently. Spending all that time with the Doctor and her companions as 'O', leading them from place to place, being right where he wanted them every step of the way. It was almost a shame to reveal himself on the plane, but the Doctor realising she'd been outsmarted made it all worth it.

Information is decidedly one of his greatest weapons. His quickly growing pile of notes, scribbles about any alien plans he needs to keep aware of, is nothing compared to the wealth of knowledge he's been collecting in his TARDIS. 

He misses his information on the Doctor most of all: thirteen of the regenerations she's lived through and the companions she's known (some more impressive than others, but still all so _weak),_ all the government statements he could find of missions she's undergone to save Earth - and having worked at MI6, he's found government statements aplenty.

Having all that information made him feel closer to her when all he had was the occasional text message, when he was stuck waiting for all the steps in his plan to fall into place and he could finally meet _her_ for the first time. Now his TARDIS is gone, and her information with it, and he is left with only memories to torment him: cold wind that bites into his fingers and messes up her hair, as she waits for him at the top of the Eiffel Tower -- a glint of victory in her eyes, and the bittersweet feeling he gets as he pushes her up against the railing because she outsmarts people just like he does, but she is succeeding in outsmarting _him_ \-- watching her descend in the lift, so close to her but the distance between them growing with every second.

Their last moments together. If he'd have known he would have payed even closer attention. But now they are apart and he is alone and stripped of nearly all his informational advantage, save for the fact that he knows where she's going to be. 

_**"Sleeper agents due for London. Repeat: sleeper agents due for -"** _

The Master flicks off the radio with a yawn. The TARDIS was usually good at maintaining his energy levels for longer than that of a usual Gallifreyan, and without it inconvenient tiredness creeps up on him far more often than before.

He circles the location on his map in red. He knows where he's avoiding for the next few years.

-

On the quiet days when his radio is silent (a good or a bad sign?) she always comes to mind. He wonders if she ever goes into the TARDIS she stole from him. Has she kept it? Dismantled it for spare parts? He knows she could if she wants to. His TARDIS would never lock her out.

He offered to show Graham the information he had on the Doctor. He's going to tell her, if he hasn't already. She'll find it. She's so energetic, always moving, but he likes to think that reading his notes will get her to sit down and take a pause. Maybe there are things she's forgotten about her past regenerations - and his research will help her out. It won't help _too_ much, though. He wasn't going to risk writing down the life the Time Lords made her forget. He wants her to find out about that on his terms. He wants to be there when she breaks.

-

**_"Number of lifeforms in Yorkshire unclear, scout requested. Repeat: number of lifeforms in Yorkshire unclear, scout -"_ **

**_-_ **

Seemingly unrelated items had been placed in a line on his workbench. An old black telephone. Bicycle handlebars. A pistol he'd picked up during the war. A broken pocket watch. 

The previous owner of his new temporary home had left all their tools behind, which was really nice of them. With a sigh, he had added his TCE to the line. As fun as shrinking people to their demise is, sometimes sacrifices had to be made. 

There's another storm outside now, but instead of betting his life against lightning bolts he's sat by the fireplace, twirling his new sonic screwdriver between his fingers every time a crack of thunder reaches his ears.

Where hers is dented and matt, his is shiny and smooth to the touch. Hers the colour of silver, while his shines golden in the light. What can he say? He finds pleasure in the simple things - like being her opposite wherever possible. He remembers the crystal her sonic held: yellow in colour, glowing like some beacon of hope. He's forfeited the crystal from his TCE - his sonic looks like it's aflame - shining a dark orange. Like hers, but not quite. They are reflections of their screwdrivers, in a way.

She is sunlight, dappling in the trees, soft and pleasant and warm. He is a firestorm, destructive and scorching hot. His Doctor likes to forget it, but they both left Gallifrey. Two sides of the same, runaway coin. His side of the coin is just a little more... chaotic. 

He understands why she likes to pretend they have nothing in common. It eats him up inside sometimes - it's why he focuses on their differences so much, so that he can forget the pain of not being able to talk to the one person who might just understand him. 

The Master pockets his sonic of of amber and gold. There is no time to waste on thoughts like that. The previous owner was nice enough to also leave their wine cellar intact, and he's curious to see if the rumours of human spirits chasing away sorrows is true.

-

**_"Location of the brush pass substituted to Wolverhampton. Repeat: location of the brush pass substituted to - "_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you next Tuesday! (Hopefully).


	4. the box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time Lords get lonely sometimes too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated :)

He tries for contact, sometimes. He isn't foolish enough to expect it to work - after all, his Doctor doesn't even exist yet. It's just something to pass the time.

They'd only connected once, but he misses the feeling. He can't move past the fact that _she_ reached out for _him_ first, and even knowing that it was all part of her plan to defeat him doesn't stop his chest from feeling oddly tight. She reached for him. Now he is stuck, obsessively reaching for her in return, never getting his hopes up for a response. 

Which is good, because he doesn't get one.

-

He still doesn’t know what year it is. By this point, he’s in too deep to ask. 

In a way, it’s oddly freeing. After a far too long amount of time being stuck inside his own head, counting down the years - it’s nice to let that go for a while. Of course, he’ll need to find out at some point, he doesn’t want to miss her. That would be rather embarrassing.

He may be out of his head, but it’s not for long. His self isolation, his refusal to integrate into any of the communities he spends time in seemed like a brilliant idea at first. But an unwelcome side effect to that is the loss of social graces required when conversing with people. He used to be such a people person. O was weird, sure, but he was the sort of weird and awkward that was approachable. Friendly. 

Now - in whatever time he’s in - he has no clue what counts as socially acceptable, and what screams _stay away._

The truth is: he’s lonely.  He’s comfortable enough in his empty houses and his picture frames with sketches of her to admit it. He has no one to talk to, so pretty soon he’s going to start talking to himself. And he knows from past experiences - relying purely on his own counsel won’t end well. He’s reckless sure, but he does want to actually make it to 2020 without becoming planet Earth’s enemy number one.

-

It reaches a point where he’s talking to his radio, and he knows something has to change. Often he finds himself tuning in to human talk shows instead of the private alien frequencies he usually listens to, because its easier to pretend someone is talking back on the other end. It's pitiful, and it's sad, and he can't allow it to go on. 

In an ideal world, he'd have company. Someone to have around that wouldn't ask questions about his work, or his self-isolation. Someone who would already have at least a basic understanding of his technology, and wouldn't need to have everything explained to them. Someone who would be fine living with the weirdness of a time lord. But in this incredibly boring reality he's trapped in, people like that just don't exist. 

He continues listening to the radio, red pen and map at the ready. But there is something at the back of his mind - a piece of information just evading his grasp. Something important. Something he's missing.

The radio is ignored. Pens and map pushed aside. 

The master reaches for the house phone. For the first time since getting stuck in the past he has some calls to make - because perhaps people like that do exist after all.

-

He makes those calls. Pulls some strings. Voices some threats here and there. He knows this isn’t a good idea. Well, it’s a brilliant idea for him - he gets company, and doesn’t slowly descend further into madness with the information that everything he is, everything he’s done, is all because of her. He gets a distraction from the absolute burning truth: that the Doctor is special, and he is not. 

But time wise.... it’s not his safest plan. He has to play his cards right, or the universe won’t just change - it will cease to ever be. It is a foolish and unnecessary risk, and his Doctor will be so disappointed when she hears about it, which makes him want to do it all the more.

He grins delightedly, when the world famous Pandorica is delivered to his door. All impressive looking with markings carved into the sides by the Doctor's enemies (he remembers a past regeneration feeling rather insulted that they hadn't been invited to that party), and the stone is lit up orange as he scans the edge with his sonic, careful not to touch it and accidentally set the prisoner free. He flicks it towards him to check the readings.

One person inside in the prison, completely unable to get out. A companion of the Doctor's, to be specific, just like he'd researched. 

He's read plenty about the universe almost undoing itself, about the strange time without the stars, and he knows this box has an extremely important part to play. He knows the Doctor made a companion take his place inside the box, to save himself, but also to save her. As far as he knows, he does save her. It's a touching story, sure - just as sappy and nice as he expected. 

He leaves the box outside where it was deposited. Takes a chair to the window to watch and (not so patiently) wait. He needs the Pandorica, sure, but its not what he _wants._ He's more interested in what comes with it. 

Finally, he'll have some company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know this chapter is ridiculously short. 
> 
> My college was closed due to Covid-19, so dealing with anxiety and a changing class-schedule didn't leave me in a great writing headspace. But I'm coping! And I hope anyone dealing with the virus affecting their lives is coping too. 
> 
> Till Tuesday, then.


	5. the centurion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The master’s acting career continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In summary: I LOVE RORY WILLIAMS. It’s my boy’s time to shine.

He watches things unfold from the window: the Lone Centurion circling the Pandorica - not touching its surface, but keeping a close eye out for any damages the box may have taken during the move. He knows there aren't, but he lets him have his moment.

He is not the legendary hero that the Master expected. His cloak is burnt and torn, and his right arm dangles uselessly at his side, bandaged beyond belief. Auton's don't need sleep - but he doubts any auton has ever lived thousands of years, either. This one has tired eyes, which dutifully view the world, but seem like they would much rather close and remain that way.

The auton's last sighting had been in 1941. Some speculated that he'd finally perished after nearly two thousand years - but here in front of him is the proof of how wrong they were. He most definitely isn't dead, he's just taking a more passive role in his guarding. Following the box instead of stopping people from getting close. Smart, but what is the reason behind it?

The auton circles the box again, and he takes in his bandaged arm for a second time, and things start to make more sense. He's broken, and has no way of fixing himself.

The Master smiles to himself. He can use this.

The Lone Centurion - or _Rory,_ as his notes called him - finishes his inspection, seemingly satisfied with the results. He looks torn between slumping down against the side of the Pandorica, or retreating back to the forest he'd emerged from. That's his cue, then.

He opens his front door slowly, like Rory is some timid animal he's trying not to scare off. Rory sees him. His indecisive look is gone - standing firm between the Master and the box. 

He smiles again, warmer this time, one hand rising in peace, the other in his pocket to grip his sonic. It's just a precaution. Just in case he's got his auton arms mixed up and Rory's gun-arm is working perfectly fine. He doesn't get the chance to speak first. 

"Whoever you are, you had this -" Rory gestures to the Pandorica behind him - "moved all the way out here, so you must know how important it is." He shifts so that his bandaged arm is less noticeable, trying his best to be intimidating. How cute. The Master already knows this is going to be fun.

"I don't mean you two any harm," he begins, and for now he means it. It won't do to change history too much and cause the destruction of the universe. And he does rather want someone to talk to.

Rory however, doesn't budge. "Forgive me if I don't believe you."

He has to try extremely hard then not to punch the air in victory. After having spent however long talking to his radio, he's finally having a real, proper _conversation._ And not a conversation with some boring old human, no, he's talking to a being much older than he, a piece of metal and plastic who's utterly convinced of his own humanity - as if believing he is real somehow makes it so.

He's pitiful, and impossible, and the most interesting contradiction the Master has seen in all the regenerations he can immediately recall. He can't resist taking out his screwdriver. He has to scan him. Just a little bit.

And as it turns out, that is equally the best and worst impulse he's ever acted on. Bar, maybe, destroying his entire race.

-

It goes somewhat like this: before he can get close enough to scan him, Rory notices the sonic. He grabs the Master's arm at the same time it beings to glow orange, holding it at a distance away from him. 

He expects pain, expects an attack which does not come. The stand like that, together for a moment, and then he is let go. Rory stares at him like he's some sort of ghost. 

He doesn't know what is going on inside the Lone Centurion's head. He can only assume that Rory recognises the sonic - not _his_ , but the concept of one - and jumps to a conclusion that is so hopeful, so _human_ of him, that it's all he can do not to burst out laughing. 

It goes somewhat like this: a moment charged with tension, a face of disbelief, Rory gripping his shoulders and asking - _Doctor? Is that you?_

And oh, things just keep getting more complicated. Because the Master can't help himself, and responds with - _yes._

-

  
He just has to pretend to be like the Doctor. No big deal. Rory’s struggling to remove his cloak with only one working arm, the other limp. The bandages are gone, loose wiring now visible. The Doctor - for whatever ridiculous reason - cares for her companions. He watches for a few seconds longer. 

“Here,” he says, reaching for the cloak. “Let me.”

-

He picks up the wash cloth next, shushing Rory’s objections. 

It’s easy to fall into a patten. Gentle wipes of the cloth across his forehead, rinse. Rub at the dirt on the side of his neck, rinse. Hold his head still, hesitate, and softly dab at his cheeks, his eyelids, rinse. 

“Thank you, Doctor.” Rory sits still, eyes shut. 

“Happy to help. After this, I can take a look at that stubborn arm of yours.” Rub at a mark under his lip. Rinse. “We’ll start by- by - “ a yawn cuts him off. Rory’s mouth quirks, and he takes the washcloth back. 

“Another time,” he says quietly. “You’ve done enough.”

When it’s obvious that he isn’t about to stand up, Rory moves instead. He stops just by the front door. Turns. There is peaceful exhaustion in his smile, like he has accepted his situation and is happy to let the universe carry on without him. 

“It’s - it’s good to see you again.”

The masters waves a silent goodnight. Droplets of water from the cloth run along his arm. He watches Rory leave to return to his box before he chucks it away.

-

Rory _says_ that he’s glad to see him, but the Master can tell he doesn’t fully trust him from the get go. It’s understandable. From Rory’s point of view, the man he last saw around two thousand years ago, the man he’s travelled with, the man who is his friend - now looks like a complete stranger.

He’s confident Rory will come around, though. The Master is rather charming when he wants to be. And right now, he really _really_ wants to be. Living as O was fun, sure - but this is a whole new challenge.

Stealing the identity of his first friend and greatest enemy. In a way, all of the research he's ever done has been leading him up to this moment in time. The Master doesn't have control over much. So he's going to make the most of this perfect opportunity while its around. He knows Rory has to leave at some point - but messing with him up till then isn't going to hurt anyone, right? He gets company, and Rory gets to think he's found his friend again.

It's a win- win situation for everyone.

-

_**“The Pandorica’s location has altered. Repeat: the Pandorica’s location has been-“** _

-

With Rory’s supervision, he sets up a forcefield around the box, effectively trapping all the frequencies it’s giving off inside.   
  
“Yes, I know what I’m doing. No, it’s not going to hurt her.” 

He looks at his friend’s - no, the Doctor’s friend’s expression. He isn’t looking at the Master - eyes glued to the barricades he’s putting up between him and the thing he’s protecting. Be kind, he reminds himself. 

“It’s necessary, Rory.” He pokes the not-quite-a-human until he has his full attention. “You’ve protected her long enough. Let me help you out.”

-

He yawns his way out of bed. Oh, if his enemies could see him now.

What can he say? He sleeps better when he's in the middle of tricking people into being his friends. He's fallen into what some may call a 'morning routine.' Barton always stressed the importance of schedules to him (yawn) but he has to admit now, stuck taking life one day at a time like any old human, he's beginning to see the appeal.

Get up before dawn. Contemplate his hatred of the person he's pretending to be. Ponder what year it is. Forget to ask someone what year it is. Listen to his radio - and finally, make breakfast.

The Master’s also gotten into the habit of making something for Rory too. Even though he doesn't have to eat, he always sits with him at the table, eating slower due to the broken robot arm (Rory’s promised ‘next time’ seemingly hasn’t arrived yet.) It's a nice atmosphere, and he suspects Rory likes it too, before he goes outside to spend the rest of his time guarding the Pandorica.

That box. That Amy. That's all Rory is - her protector. Breakfast is the only time he will willingly leave her side, which is stubborn and endearing but also so _frustrating._

"You know I'd never let any harm come to her," he tells Rory once, at the table. He's made eggs. He remembered the the Doctor is kind, and cares, and asked Rory what he likes. To which he got: eggs.

"I know," comes the reply. An acnnowlegdment, but no hint that anything will change anytime soon. The Master smiles, and carries on eating. He doesn't push it. His Doctor wouldn't push it, wouldn't dream of facing awkward situations unless she had to.

So really - he's doing okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this one! Feedback as always is enjoyed and appreciated.
> 
> Stay safe, everyone. See you on Tuesday.


	6. the companion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lie grows.

Talking to Rory is easier than the Master expected it to be. Though after two thousand years, _anyone_ would be desperate for conversation, so he tries not to take it as a compliment when Rory hangs onto his every word, jumping in with questions whenever he pauses for breath. 

It feels good to be out of his own head again. Which is why day after day he's dragging chairs deep into the woods where the Pandorica is hidden, for the two of them to sit on while they just _talk._ He talks about building his sonic, and a pleasant feeling settles in his gut when he can tell the truth about this experience.

He talks about the Doctor's - sorry, _his_ Tardis's newer design of soft glowing crystals - Rory in turn reminisces about the Tardis he traveled in: cluttered console, green lights, homely. The master nods, pretending to remember something he’s never seen. His Doctor's Tardis is beautiful, but the crystals that loom above only serve to intimidate, and the lack of proper lighting left him stumbling about in the dark when he'd taken that trip as O. The console had thrummed with energy, pleasingly smooth when he'd dared to let his fingers brush across it - but it was cold and metallic. Not homely at all.

The design her Tardis chose seems pretty and professional, meant to impress. And maybe that's the problem. It hides behind a persona, because _she_ hides behind a persona too, pretending to be this confident and boisterous being so that her companions won't dislike her and leave. It's just sad. 

He tells Rory that he would rather not talk about the Tardis anymore, seeing as he's lost his, and they move on.

He wracks his brans to remember any details he can about other companions the Doctor's had in the past. He tells him about Clara and the adventures they shared, how they fought the Cybermen, how one time they were trapped on a space train with a mummy - 

"What, no." Rory laughs. His slightly burnt cape is wrapped around his shoulders like a blanket, and he is a drop of redness amidst the green of the trees. "That can't be real."

The master grins knees tucked up to his chest, feet off the ground. "I can assure you it is. The Mummy appears to you? Boom. You're a goner. No one ever survived."

"You survived, though."

"Well of course I did. I'm a genius."

Rory rolls his eyes, pulling his cloak tighter around him as best as he can with the one arm. It's getting late, and the shade provided by the trees isn't helping things. "If you say so, Doctor."

He watches the action. "I could fix that for you. The arm. Not many genius' could claim to know how an Auton ticks.”

Rory hasn't taken his eyes off him since he sat down and started talking - hasn't taken his eyes off his mouth that's doing all the talking, anyway - but his attention feels heavier now. Like he's stepped away from the easy topics of Tardis interior design to something more consequential. He's not sure that he quite likes it.

"Ah, no," Rory's eager to wave it away. He almost loses the blanket in the process. "I've managed with only the one arm so far, don't worry yourself over it." 

He's not worried. Not in the slightest. But it is somewhat annoying to have Rory so adamantly insist that he’s fine without help. Of course he’s fine, but he’d be so much better with a working gun arm. It’s only logical. 

-

The Master realises, eventually, that he has to change his approach, or Rory will never _truly_ warm up to him. They won't progress any further than their talks in the woods, Rory wanting his words, but not actually wanting _him._

He's watching Rory standing guard, dutifully protecting his box, when it hits him. If he wants Rory to spend time with him, he has to be someone worth protecting too. 

He grins. It's time to bring out the sob story.

-

“Remind me, Rory, did my last regeneration ever tell you about someone called the Master?”

Rory freezes mid-bite of his boiled egg. He gets like that when the Doctor he traveled with is mentioned, which is understandable. It’s probably the whole ‘the Doctor you knew is dead’ thing that’s doing it, and honestly, the Master’s a little surprised. Rory’s died before. He thinks Rory should have conquered his fear of it by now.   
  


“Um. No? It’s not ringing any bells.”

He wishes he could laugh. He’ll tell Rory about every thing he’s ever done to ruin the Doctor’s existence, and sit back to bask in sympathy that’s not rightfully his. Oh, life has a way of working out brilliantly, sometimes.

“I’m surprised. They’re an enemy of mine - one of the worst. Fiendishly clever, too. Or, they were. I haven’t seen them in a while.” He pretends to ponder, covering his mouth to hide his grin. “Maybe they finally ran out of regenerations.”

That gets Rory’s attention. “They were like you?”

The Master remembers two children, running through fields, chasing clouds and counting the seconds between lightning bolts and booms of thunder on their fingers. He remembers growing up, when the only thing he enjoyed more than rebellion was having a friend to be rebellious with. He remembers getting bolder and bolder, stealing tools, stealing materials, all the way to finally stealing a Tardis, spurred on by the Doctor’s encouragement. He remembers the day he stole with with no intention of coming back, and how she did the same. Two sides, same coin.

”Yeah,” he admits. “They were like me.”

-

  
They grow used to how things are. Playing the sympathy card worked better than he expected. Sharing bad experiences (even when they technically weren’t his) seemed to do the trick, and the Master feels confident in the role of the Doctor that he is playing, and Rory as his new companion. 

When they talk, sometimes, Rory's eyes flicker to the treeline, where they know Pandorica waits, but the Master's accepted that now. Or he's trying to. Now that they've been together a while and Rory is no longer holding onto his every word, it's hard not to be jealous of the other things he pays so much attention to.

But as often as his eyes flicker away, they always comes back to him eventually, whether Rory's in the kitchen surprising him with breakfast for a change - "I don't sleep, so I might as well" - or he's grinning when they have their conversations in the woods - "a dinosaur. In London. Really?" - and it's the small victories that matter most, he thinks. When he's asked if the spare room is still on offer, he bundles Rory and his possessions (of which there are not many, but that's besides the point) inside while trying him damnedest to hide the smile on his face.

-  
  


Not many nights after Rory officially moves in (the house feels far less empty already) they’re spending the evening in the workshop, finally taking a look at Rory’s arm. The Master doesn’t try and hide how pleased he is - pulling the garage door closed and switching on the lamps. This is definitely another one of his victories.

He’s as methodical as he can be, rolling up the sleeve and shining a light onto the exposed wires. His fingers brush the open panel; Rory doesn’t flinch.

”Does it hurt?”

”No. There isn’t any pain.”

He hums, reaching down to hold onto his wrist. “Good. Feel that?”

Rory looks down at his arm. “...No.”

The Master goes back to the exposed wires, peering into the panel. “ You can’t use your arm - and the fact that you can’t feel anything with it either makes me think that it’s just a few disconnected wires.”   
  
He takes a moment to glance up at Rory’s face. He doesn’t look so good. The poor guy’s spent so long trying to convince himself that he’s still human, still himself, even though he’s made of metal and machinery. The Master guesses that it was doable, because at least he still looks human (minus the gun-hand). But now that he’s face to face with his more robotic nature, well, it must be a little harder to bear.

”Hey.” He speaks softer than he means to. “Take any tumbles before you bumped into me?”

Rory looks puzzled, but it’s enough to get him out of his thoughts. “I did,” he admits, wincing at the memory. “That was right about the time my arm stopped working.”

”Yeah well, you tin-cans aren’t built for endurance.” He’s found what he was looking for. “It doesn’t take much to knock your wiring out of place. I’m surprised you lasted this long with only the one injury, actually.”

He reconnects a green wire with a click, and reaches for Rory’s wrist again, feeling smug. “How’s that?”

After a moment of nothing, Rory’s hand is moving slowly to intertwine with his own. He squeezes it gratefully. “Better. Thank you.”

-

“So, what’s with the radio?” He’s around five minutes into listening to private frequencies and scribbling on his map - and more importantly, five minutes into breakfast - when Rory decides to join him. The map’s getting a little hard to read now. He might have force himself to endure society for a while to go and buy a new one. Maybe he can get Rory to go instead. He puts the pen down, sliding him a bowl.

“Good morning to you too. This radio -“ which he adjusts so that Rory can see it clearer, see his modifications and maybe hope that he’ll be impressed - “let’s me know which parts of England are going to have... alien interference. It makes trying to avoid detection a little easier.”

The Master continues eating. Rory stiffens. It doesn’t take a genius to know whose safety he’s thinking about when he asks “and is this place safe?”

_Is Amy safe?_

His apple leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Maybe it’s his jealousy. Maybe it’s just gone bad. But he ignores the sensation nevertheless. The Doctor would be kind. Reassuring.

“For now. Don’t worry - I’ll let you know if we have to move.”

He can’t help but notice that Rory barely takes a second glance at his work on the radio, too busy looking out of the window towards the woods. Towards his box. He’s noticed that he only really ever does that now when he’s worried.

“Amy will be perfectly safe,” he adds after a moments thought. It seems to placate Rory a little. He even eats something. The Master takes it as a personal win.

-

He doesn't mean to. But the weather is getting warmer again and he feels safer than he should, sitting in the woods sonic-less with a robot and a prison cell that most of the universe are looking for. He doesn't even realise he's fallen asleep until he's waking up again to the feeling of something being draped over him. He cracks open one eye to take in the red cloak Rory loves so much (he still keeps it, even though it’s past the point of being a little worse for wear. The Master doesn't know why. Maybe he just really enjoys being a roman.)

He's cozy, and warm, and Rory's regarding him with a wistful expression makes him think he's still dreaming.

"Sorry for waking you," he smiles, not looking that sorry at all. "It's just getting rather late. I didn't want you to be cold."

He must look a sight, all bundled up with tired eyes. He fights the urge to yawn. "Late... Why did you let me sleep so long?"

"Ah." Rory fidgets where he stands, like he can't decide whether to stay or return to his chair. "I was watching you. It's been so long since I last slept, I can barely remember what it feels like."

His wistful expression fades into something more fond. "You looked peaceful. I didn't want to disturb you. You always look so tired, Doctor, you always have something to fix, or your map to complete, or danger to look out for. I thought you could use a break."

The Master thinks he understands the Doctor a little better now. Understands why they're so distraught whenever one of their companions decides to leave - or is killed before they get the chance to. It's so easy to let oneself get attached, and he doesn't know how the Doctor goes through the pain and finds a way to keep moving on. It sounds impossible, but then again, the Master has never been very good at dealing with people once they get close to him. And Rory is getting dangerously close.

He fights to keep his voice even, but he can hardly believe himself when he's saying - "maybe I can help you out. Get your systems to experience something similar to sleeping."

“But... you said-“ Rory pauses. “Past you said it wasn’t possible.”

The Master sighs internally. Oh, if only his Doctor could see him now. He’d love to rub it in her face when he proves her wrong, like he’s someone coming back to an old argument with a list of new points to make.   
  


“My previous regeneration may have said that. But he wasn’t me. And I say that I can do it.”

  
Truthfully - he isn't even sure if it’s possible. But the gentle hope in Rory's eyes is enough to make him want to try. He understands now, how the Doctor keeps on saving the world over and over. He himself feels like he would overcome any obstacle if it only meant his companion kept on smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So maybe I’m soft for them. Just a little bit.
> 
> It’s Tuesday! I know it’s technically not the Tuesday I said I’d update on, but it’s been hard to find motivation recently with everything that’s going on. Hope this chapter will do! Please let me know what you think.


End file.
